served that in the meantime everything had become more squalid. The floor, the window, the furniture, were not kept so clean as formerly,—inevitable result of the overcrowding of a room; the air was bad, the children looked untidy. The large bed had not been set in order since last night; in it lay the baby, crying as always, ailing as it had done from the day of its birth. John Hewett was engaged in mending one of the chairs, of which the legs had become loose. He looked with surprise at the visitor, and at once averted his face sullenly.
“Mr. Hewett,” Kirkwood began, without form of greeting, “on Saturday morning I heard something that I believe I ought to have let you know at once. I felt, though, that it was hardly my business; and somehow we haven’t been quite so open with each other just lately as we used to be.”
His voice sank. Hewett had risen from his crouching attitude, and was looking him full in the face with eyes which grew momently darker and more hostile.
